People of the Thunder (North America's Forgotten Past) (9 page)

“Right,” Trader replied. “I forget. It will take a while.”

Old White blew smoke toward the fire. “That last cast at the chunkey game. You gave me a look, trying to tell me something. I thought you were going to miss on purpose.”

Trader expelled a weary breath. “Honestly, I didn’t know what would happen. I was torn, Seeker. Born-of-Sun made me a very good offer. We could have stayed at Rainbow City, Traded from there, built lives. They would have made Two . . . the Contrary welcome among them.”

“It surprised me that you didn’t look worried. From the way you and the high chief were talking, congratulating each other, I wasn’t sure that you had your heart in it.”

“Oh, I did, Seeker, believe me. When I’m on the chunkey court, I play to win. I really wanted to see which of us was better.” He laughed at himself. “The night before the match, I was all tied in knots. Worried like I had never been worried before. Then, when I went out to practice, Born-of-Sun joined me. We talked, and I suddenly realized, the best thing to do was enjoy myself. So
I did. I gave myself over to fate. If I were to lose, it would be the will of Power. And as a result, I played brilliantly. I can’t remember enjoying a game more.”

“And that final cast?”

“That look I gave you, it was surrender. I didn’t know what was right. Should we go on to Split Sky City and face whatever terrible thing awaits us? Or was it better that we stay with the Yuchi? So I was trying to tell you: ‘Here it is.’ Then I made my cast. But just at the last moment, I closed my eyes, letting the lance seek its own path. I didn’t make that throw. I let Power do it.”

“And shattered the lance.”

“Which I regret!” He gestured with his pipe stem. “That was the best lance I’d ever made. It will take time to craft one as good.”

Old White nodded, a look of relief on his face. “The Contrary knew. She tried to tell me. Stone would shatter wood.”

Trader sighed, remembering his complete calm. “We are destined to arrive at Split Sky City.”

Old White blew smoke up at the threatening sky. “What did you think of that messenger, Bullfrog Pipe? Was that his name?”

Trader shrugged. “I made him memorize my message word for word. He was quick. He had it after two attempts. We talked some about how long it would take for you and me to Trade our way through the Chaktaw and make our way up the Black Warrior to Split Sky City. Assuming we don’t have some unforeseen problem, he should arrive sometime before we get there.”

“I’m still not sure that later wouldn’t be better.”

“We talked about this.”

“I know. I’d just like to be sure that the Sky Hand honor the white arrow.”

“Seeker, anyone who refuses to honor the white arrow would bring disaster down on their heads. No, Bullfrog Pipe will be quite safe. And once his message
is delivered, the Council will be expecting us to come from the north. I was explicit. Bullfrog Pipe is only to tell them that I’m coming to make restitution for Rattle’s death.”

“Well, it will lay the groundwork for our final meeting with the Council.”

For a long time they sat and smoked, each lost in his thoughts. Trader noted that Two Petals had drifted off to sleep. She looked so delicate in the firelight. Her glossy black hair hung around her; a peaceful expression had settled on her smooth face. Lately she had come to his Dreams. More often than not, it ended in some erotic Dance in which her naked body hovered just beyond the reach of his straining manhood.

It’s just that you’re a man and she’s an attractive woman. Forget it, she’s Contrary.

“The Kala Hi’ki says that a Horned Serpent lives under Split Sky City in the Black Warrior River,” Old White said suddenly. “He told me the story of his escape. According to him, he died, and Horned Serpent took him to the Underworld and healed his wounds. Then it left him on the banks of the Tenasee for his people to find.”

Trader lifted an eyebrow, happy for a distraction. “Then, maybe we’d better not go to Split Sky City.”

“Oh?”

“You’ve heard the stories. Horned Serpents are supposed to be enamored of copper. There are legends that if you can follow one down to its lair, you would find a huge cache of copper. I’ve heard that for copper, Horned Serpents will do great favors, grant wishes and Power to anyone who can meet their price.” Trader narrowed an eye. “Even drag an enemy’s canoe underwater and drown someone.”

Old White gave him a tired sigh. “Beware, Trader. Sometimes I think you covet that copper more than your own life.”

He chuckled. “That’s all right. Giving up the copper might be worth it if I could see a real Horned Serpent. In all my travels, I should have seen at least one. Several times, I thought I had, but closer investigation proved they were just submerged logs. How about you? Ever seen a Horned Serpent, or Tie Snake?”

Old White shook his head. “Not without the help of Spirit plants or a high fever.” He paused. “But then, I never tried luring one in with copper, either.”

They enjoyed a companionable silence before Old White added, “I have gone to places—caves, springs, empty canyons—where people have sworn Spirit beasts lived, but none ever appeared to me in this world. Over the years, I’ve grown skeptical. On the other hand, it doesn’t matter where you go, people believe these things. Whether it is Sedna, at the bottom of the sea, or Nanabush in the far northeast, none have appeared to me.” He smiled. “When the
Katsinas
came to me to tell me to go home, my souls were floating with the Power of a cactus button.”

“I don’t know that plant.”

“From the far south, in the desert, north and west of the Azteca. The Huichol call the Spirit
Peyote
. I have some if you would like to try it sometime. But the point is: I think the world of the Spirit beasts lies side by side with ours. Remember our discussion of the Healer’s bits of bone? We are separated, kept apart by some barrier I do not understand. One must pass through the portals to move from this world to the next. In the case of the Kala Hi’ki he had to die first. Because he did, he sees out of that world into ours.”

“So, they can see us, but we can’t see them.” Trader nodded. It figured. All of life had rules. “Is that why Power is sending us to Split Sky City? Because we can do what some Spirit cannot?”

“That would be my guess.”

“How are we supposed to know what to do?”

Old White glanced at Two Petals. “Ask the Contrary. She sees things we do not. Hears voices beyond our human ears. Through her, they will tell us when the time comes.”

Trader nodded, remembering Old White’s misinterpretation of the stone and wood statement during the chunkey game. “If we are smart enough to understand.”

Old White was nodding off, his eyes half-closed.

Trader yawned. “Time to sleep.”

But after he rolled into his robes, his Dreams were troubled. In them, he killed his brother over and over.

Two days of freezing rain had left Split Sky City sodden, cold, and miserable. People had huddled around their fires in an effort to avoid stepping out into the cold. Ice had rimed pestles, ramada roofs, and any other object left outside. It had coated the ground, making travel difficult. Finally the weather had broken, the clouds retreating to the north. At first opportunity, Smoke Shield had called out his Hickory Moiety men.

The Albaamaha councilor called Amber Bead stood at the edge of the plaza and watched the Chikosi war chief berate his warriors as they raced back and forth on the stickball field. Then he glanced up at the sky, seeing the puffy white clouds scudding away. The ice melted, dripping into puddles from thatched roofs and making travel under the trees a nasty endeavor. The Hickory Moiety stickball players were having a miserable time of it, slipping and sliding more than running, catching, and casting. Most of the men were soaked, streaked with grass stains, and splotched with mud.

Mikko Amber Bead was old, nearing fifty winters. He wore an old white hunting shirt, the image of Tailed Man—one of the Albaamaha culture heroes—hanging
down over it from a thong on his neck. Faded starburst tattoos could be seen on his withered cheeks. His feet were clad in grass-stuffed moccasins for warmth. That morning he’d pulled his hair up in a conservative bun and pinned it with a turkey-bone awl.

For the last ten winters he had served the southern Albaamaha clans as their voice in the Chikosi Council. Most thought him little more than a Sky Hand lackey, having but a faint idea of the role he played in his people’s resistance. Amber Bead liked it that way. As long as the Chikosi considered him to be their little lapdog, he learned things. Most of what he learned he had been able to turn deftly against the conqueror’s interests.

“You run like a bunch of women!” Smoke Shield cried in frustration.

“Yes, but the women won,” Amber Bead added smugly to himself. He cast a glance back over his shoulder and shook his head. Of course the Hickory warriors were practicing. They’d just lost the most humiliating game in recent memory. Rumor had it that Smoke Shield had bet everything, even down to his shirt, and lost it all. Even his slave, Morning Dew—his prize from the White Arrow Town raid—was now Heron Wing’s possession. The very thought of Smoke Shield’s loss brought a light-hearted joy to Amber Bead’s breast.

Amber Bead tried to see the pattern in all this. One moment Smoke Shield is at the height, and the next, here he is, at the bottom. Rumors were circulating that Flying Hawk had given the man half of his clothes so that he didn’t have to appear in public wearing a slave’s shirt.

But what did that mean for the future? Fact was, losing a stickball game was of only passing interest. Great wealth was gambled every season on the games. Clans were destitute one season, wealthy the next. It was the flux of things, dictated by Power. Fortunes rose, and in an instant they vanished.

None of it meant that Smoke Shield wouldn’t be confirmed as high minko should anything happen to Flying Hawk. That it hadn’t yet was either a tribute to Smoke Shield’s affection for his uncle—which Amber Bead doubted—or the knowledge that he might face embarrassing questions prior to the Council’s approval.

That being the case, just what was Smoke Shield waiting for? He had had only limited success so far in whipping the Council into a fervor against the Albaamaha. When it came to politics, the enemy closest to home was the one you wanted to pick on. The threat was more immediate than, say, blaming the Charokee far off to the northeast.

Amber Bead wound his way through the clutter of houses and out the south gate. He nodded pleasantly to the warrior stationed there, and had almost reached his house when a travel-stained young man stepped out, calling, “Mikko? Could I speak with you?”

Amber Bead noted the mud, the soggy moccasins, and the soaked cape the man wore. The youth had his damp hair in a tight bun, pinned with a wooden skewer. Other than a belt pouch, he carried no other pack.

“Come from far, have you?”

The man nodded, a haggard look about him. “Mikko, I am Bull Fish, of the Bobcat Clan. I come from Bowl Town. My mother is Slick Pole, of the Flat Rock lineage. I have news for your ears only.”

Amber Bead wasn’t sure, but the man’s legs seemed to be trembling. Exhaustion? “Come. My house is this way.”

He took the lead, but from the corner of his eye he could see that loose-jointed walk characteristic of an exhausted runner. At his door, he glanced this way and that, ensuring that no one seemed to be paying attention, and gestured young Bull Fish in. The fellow nodded appreciatively and lowered himself by the
hearth, extending cold hands to the warm air above the coals.

“If you will give me a moment, I’ll add some wood to that. Have you eaten?”

“No, Elder. I came here as fast as I could.”

“Just a moment then.” Amber Bead tossed some wood on his fire and stepped out the door, using the trip to his niece’s house next door as an opportunity to look around and ensure that no one was lingering close to his walls.

After borrowing half a cooked turkey and a bowl of beans, Amber Bead returned, taking a final look around. No one lurked behind the screen of his latrine, or behind the woodpile.

Entering, Amber Bead found his guest gratefully absorbing the fire’s heat. Bull Fish looked up, abashed. “Excuse me, Mikko, but I seem to be leaving mud on your floor. I should take these moccasins off.”

“Do not worry about the floor. The matting will sweep clean. What’s the point of having kin if they can’t care for an old man’s house? But do take your moccasins off. Use that stone there and prop them so the heat dries them. Meanwhile, eat, and then, when all is well, you can tell me your story.”

He watched the young man toss an offering of meat into the fire, and then utter a prayer for the turkey’s soul. He did the same for the beans, thanking the Spirit of the plants.

Well, at least he’s devout
. From Bull Fish’s clothes, and the wooden image of Tailed Man that he wore on his necklace, Amber Bead could readily believe he was from Bowl Town. A great many interesting rumors were circulating out of the north these days.

When Bull Fish finished, he tossed final offerings to the fire, smiled weakly, and said, “If I may, great Mikko. Might I use your toilet?”